


Sing Thee To Thy Rest

by little0bird



Series: Spring Returning [7]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Braime - Freeform, F/M, Near Death, Song: Jenny of Oldstones, maybe grab a tissue
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-22
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2020-07-11 10:28:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19926601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/little0bird/pseuds/little0bird
Summary: Cwen fixed her gaze on the deep blue water of the cove, already calculating the angle of a flaming arrow.  ‘Papa? Do you have any regrets?’‘As I gaze at the end of my life?’‘Do you?’ Cwen persisted.‘Fewer than you might think.  I made my peace with most of my regrets years ago,’ Jaime replied.  ‘Mostly I marvel over life’s ironies.’‘For example?’Jaime’s shoulder hitched in a small shrug.  ‘My daughter married the grandson of a man that hated me more than almost anyone else in the world.’  Jaime gestured to the boys cavorting in the water. ‘My eldest grandson bears the name of a man I killed.’  He shrugged slightly. ‘Peace makes strange bedfellows of us all. ’





	1. What Dreams May Come

The shutters were open to let in the watery winter sunshine, despite the chill. The creak of the hinges on the chamber door drew Jaime’s attention away from the sight of the calm blue waters of the Straits of Tarth to the figure edging into the room. ‘Lady Brienne,’ he murmured, inclining his head slightly.

‘Ser Jaime.’ Brienne crossed to the bed and curled next to Jaime, head resting on his shoulder. ‘I forbid you to die today, old man,’ she said sternly.

Jaime turned his head, hand coming up to brush his fingers over the plane of her cheek. ‘I shall do my best to comply, my lady.’ His hand dropped to cover one of Brienne’s where it rested against his chest. ‘No vigils. No septons. Just toss my body off the cliffs into the sea. Or build a pyre on the shore.’ His face brightened. ‘Or do it like the Tullys. Send me out into the sea on a boat, then shoot a flaming arrow at it.’ His laugh quickly turned into a wracking cough. Brienne reached for the cup of water on the table next to the bed, but Jaime waved it away. Her breath caught in her throat, and she tightened her arm across his chest, acutely aware of how frail he felt. ‘I’ll have Cwen do it,’ she mumbled gruffly. ‘I’m no archer, and she’s much better than Nikolas.’

‘Have they left Eastwatch?’ Brienne nodded in mute reply. A raven had arrived that morning with a message from Cwen. ‘Good.’ Jaime’s fingers tightened around Brienne’s. ‘I don’t regret a moment of my life with you. And I’ll die the way I always wanted.’

‘In your own bed?’

‘In the arms of the woman I love,’ Jaime corrected.

Brienne started. ‘You’ve never said that,’ she said quietly.

‘How I wanted to die?’

She shook her head. ‘Love.’ Brienne shrugged. ‘We’ve never said it to one another.’

‘I never felt we had to,’ Jaime murmured. ‘Did you want me to say so?’

Brienne’s eyes drifted shut. ‘No.’

Jaime’s eyes closed. ‘It’s a pity Tyrion didn’t die the way he’d always intended.’

‘Eighty years old,’ Brienne began.

‘With a belly full of wine,’ Jaime added.

‘And a girl’s mouth around his cock,’ they finished in unison. Jaime let out a ghost of a chuckle. ‘At least he died knowing he was loved by someone other than me.’ He glanced thoughtfully at Brienne. ‘Do you remember the song Podrick sang before we fought the dead?’

Brienne’s eyes snapped open. ‘“Jenny of Oldstones.”’

‘Can you sing it?’ He felt Brienne tense slightly. _Even after all these years_ , he thought sadly. But hard lessons learned as children were hard to forget. She was by no means a bard, but often it had only been her voice that soothed the children in the cradle.

Brienne swallowed hard. ‘I can try,’ she said reluctantly.

‘Consider it my dying wish, then.’

Brienne winced, then cleared her throat. ‘High in the halls of the kings who are gone, Jenny would dance with her ghosts, The ones she had lost and the ones she had found, And the ones who had loved her the most… The ones who’d been gone for so very long, She couldn’t remember their names, They spun her around on the damp old stones, Spun away all her sorrow and pain… And she never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave, never wanted to leave…’ Her voice cracked and the song faded. _My mother,_ _Galladon, my infant sisters, Renly, Catelyn Stark… Gods only knew where Arya was… Nobody’s heard from her in years..._

Jaime shifted until he faced her. ‘Don’t weep for me,’ he said. ‘I order you not to weep for me.’

The crease between her brows deepened. ‘When have I ever followed orders from you?’

‘There’s always a first time,’ Jaime commented.

She snorted softly. ‘If you expect me to start taking orders from you, I’m afraid you’ll have a very long wait.’

‘Yes… But I haven’t much time left,’ he reminded her gently. 

Brienne blinked rapidly, then nodded once.


	2. Perchance to Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cwen fixed her gaze on the deep blue water of the cove, already calculating the angle of a flaming arrow. ‘Papa? Do you have any regrets?’
> 
> ‘As I gaze at the end of my life?’
> 
> ‘Do you?’ Cwen persisted.
> 
> ‘Fewer than you might think. I made my peace with most of my regrets years ago,’ Jaime replied. ‘Mostly I marvel over life’s ironies.’ 
> 
> ‘For example?’
> 
> Jaime’s shoulder hitched in a small shrug. ‘My daughter married the grandson of a man that hated me more than almost anyone else in the world.’ Jaime gestured to the boys cavorting in the water. ‘My eldest grandson bears the name of a man I killed.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘Peace makes strange bedfellows of us all. ’

Nikolas swung the youngest of Cwen’s children into the back of the cart and climbed into the seat, taking the reins from his sister. He flicked them over the back of the draft horse, and the cart began to move away from the pier. ‘How are they?’ Cwen asked.

‘Papa wants us to float his body out to sea in a boat, then shoot a flaming arrow at it,’ Nikolas sighed. ‘I can’t tell if he’s joking or completely serious.’

Cwen’s brows drew together. ‘Like the Tullys?’

‘Mmm-hmmm.’ He glanced at Cwen. ‘And you’re to shoot the arrow.’

‘And Mamma has agreed to this folly?’

‘She’s having a boat built at this very moment.’

Cwen shook her hair off her face. There would be no arguments. Both of her parents could be remarkably intransigent when they desired. If this was what her father truly wanted, her mother would do everything in her power to ensure he received the sort of memorial he desired. ‘Archery practice it is.’ She threw a glance over her shoulder. The children were swaying sleepily in the back, lulled by the rhythm of the cart. It had been a stormy, difficult voyage until they passed Dragonstone. ‘And Mamma?’ 

Nikolas shrugged with one shoulder. ‘You know Mamma. Stoic as always.’

‘So she’s still running Evenfall?’ Cwen turned on the seat to face Nikolas. ‘As always?’

His shoulders hunched. ‘No,’ he was forced to admit. ‘She’s been with Papa since the maester told her he wouldn’t last more than a few months.’

‘She won’t outlive him by much,’ Cwen ventured.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Nikolas retorted. He didn’t want to think about becoming the Evenstar. Not yet. He couldn’t even bring himself to use the Evenstar’s chair in the hall, despite his mother’s conspicuous absence. He refused to carry Oathkeeper, despite Brienne’s insistence that the sword was now his.

‘She won’t pine away.’ Cwen bit her lip. ‘Not like that. That’s not her way.’ She lifted her face to the sun, so much warmer than the North. ‘Her world is shrinking.’

Nikolas only grunted, and flicked the reins over the horse’s back, encouraging it to go faster. He couldn’t deny the truth of what she’d said. Tyrion and Sansa were gone. Davos had died shortly after Selwyn. Podrick had been killed years ago, defending the king. Brienne had wept openly when she’d read the note from Jon Snow, and had sailed immediately to King’s Landing, arriving in time to stand Podrick’s final vigil. 

And soon their father would be gone. 

* * *

Jory, Endrew, and Lyanna tumbled from the back of the cart and pelted across the yard, throwing themselves into Brienne’s waiting arms. She doled out kisses to each of the children, then folded Cwen into an embrace. Brienne glanced down and rested a hand over the visible swell of Cwen’s belly. ‘You shouldn’t have come.’

‘Nothing could keep me away. You know that.’

Brienne felt a tiny nudge against her fingertips. ‘You were always more stubborn than your father.’

Cwen laughed softly. ‘He always said it was you.’ She laid one of her hands over her mother’s. ‘I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want you to try and talk me out of coming here.’

‘How much longer?’

‘A few more months.’ She leaned into Brienne, inhaling the scent of her. Lavender. Cypress.  _ Home. _ ‘I thought I might stay here for the birth.’

‘Your father will be thrilled.’

Cwen gulped. ‘If he lives long enough.’ She hoped, rather than believed that Jaime would live long enough to meet his newest grandchild.

‘Nanna?’ Jory popped up behind Brienne’s elbow. ‘Could we go see Granda?’

‘No,’ Cwen said firmly before Brienne could reply. ‘You smell like the manure pile at Last Hearth. The three of you need baths before you demand stories about Arthur Dayne from your grandfather.’

Brienne gently began to herd the children into the hall. ‘Your grandfather’s sleeping. By the time you’ve bathed and had some food, he’ll be awake.’ Cwen paused on the threshold into the hall, hands pressed to the small of her back. She took in a deep breath, steeling herself for the day she would have to say goodbye to her father. ‘Come,’ Brienne said, sliding an arm thought Cwen’s. ‘You look as if you could use a bath and some rest yourself.’ Cwen allowed her mother to tow her up the stairs to the family quarters. ‘I wondered if you might do something for me?’ Brienne asked.

‘As long as it doesn’t involve traveling alone with three children,’ Cwen quipped. 

‘There should be a book in the library with the Lannister sigil. The maester should know where. I want you to embroider it on your father’s surcoat. For when…’ Brienne’s lips clamped together. 

Cwen stopped and refused to take another step forward. ‘Did he ask for this?’

‘No.’ Brienne looked slightly abashed. ‘I want him to be who he was — is — just once.’

‘It’s foolhardy, Mamma,’ Cwen argued. 

‘There’s no one here who will care,’ Brienne reminded her. ‘We fooled no one, and most people pretended Jaime Lannister died years before you were born. I’ll bring the surcoat by your chamber later.’

* * *

Cwen made her way to Nikolas’ chamber. She couldn’t sleep. The baby was much more active at night. It was late, but Nikolas was surely awake. He usually was. She knocked lightly on his door. Nikolas yanked the door open with a scowl, but it dropped from his face when he saw Cwen. He stepped back and Cwen sidled into the room and went straight to the window seat. ‘To what do I owe the honor of this visit?’ Nikolas drawled. 

Cwen shook out Jaime’s surcoat. She’d already begun to embroider a small Lannister sigil on the right shoulder. ‘Mamma’s asked me to do  _ that _ .’

Nikolas shrugged. ‘No harm now, I suppose.’ He sagged into the chair nearest the fire and began to rub his thumbs under his eyebrows. 

‘How are you?’ Cwen asked, stabbing her needle through the black wool of the surcoat. ‘Everyone asks Mamma and Papa how they feel. Or me. But no one seems to ask you.’

‘Came to terms with Papa dying weeks ago,’ Nikolas muttered. ‘Last summer, really, when he caught that fever and nearly died.’

‘Why haven’t you married?’ Cwen asked abruptly. ‘I know you’re in King’s Landing every year. And that you meet all sorts of suitable ladies there. So you can’t say you never have the opportunity to meet anyone.’ Nikolas pointedly remained silent, staring into the flames. Cwen slowly lowered the surcoat. ‘Unless…’ She licked her lips, a few puzzle pieces falling into place. ‘Unless you prefer men,’ she said quietly. Nikolas started violently. ‘Forgive me, brother, I didn’t mean…’

‘No one must ever know,’ Nikolas told her, his voice pitched low. ‘The Seven prohibit it,’ he choked. ‘The septon will declare I’m not fit to inherit.’

‘So your plan is to… what? Die a bachelor and let one of my children inherit?’ Nikolas reddened. ‘Mamma will --’

‘Mamma will…?’ Nikolas spread his hands out wide. ‘By the time it becomes an issue, she won’t be alive.’ He pushed himself to his feet and retrieved the poker and jabbed at the logs in the hearth. ‘I’ve been making plans to leave Evenfall to Endrew.’

Cwen added a few more stitches, formulating and rejecting replies. ‘You could marry,’ she ventured. ‘Bed her enough to bear a child or two, if you’re capable, that is.. And do it soon before you’re an old man like Papa was when we were born.’

‘No,’ Nikolas said flatly. ‘Not in a thousand years. Yes, I am capable. I fucked a few whores when I was younger just to see if I could when other lords started offering their daughters. But it’s a vow, Cwen. We don’t take vows lightly in this family. Our family’s sword is named Oathkeeper. And I refuse to marry anyone just to impregnate her. Endrew will make a fine heir.’

‘Is there someone?’ Cwen kept her eyes trained on the stitches she made in the fabric. 

Nikolas sighed. ‘A very nice man. The third son of a minor Westerlands lord, and no, I won’t tell you who. We see each other in the capital each year. We write from time to time. Nothing too revealing. We behave with the utmost discretion. Never fear. I won’t be a Loras Tyrell.’ 

Cwen felt tears prick her eyelids. ‘Aren’t you lonely?’

‘I don’t have time to be lonely,’ Nikolas retorted. He sat next to Cwen. ‘And, it wouldn’t be fair to the lady.’ He examined his hands, rough and callused with hours spent training horses and earning the right to wear Oathkeeper one day. ‘Besides,’ he added with a smile that nearly veered into a grimace, ‘given Papa’s history, me being a sword-swallower is nothing.’ He bumped Cwen’s shoulder with his own. ‘Now. Get out and leave me be so I can go to sleep and pretend we never had this conversation.’ He tapped half-embroidered sigil on the surcoat. ‘And you need to finish that.’

Cwen carefully folded the surcoat and took the hand Nikolas offered her. She was nearly to the door when a thought occurred to her. ‘Nikolas? Do you remember when you came home from Sunspear?’

‘Yes.’

‘Mamma and Papa started telling you all those stories about Loras Tyrell and Renly Baratheon.’

‘So?’

Cwen sighed and patted him lightly on the chest. ‘I think they know.’ She went up on her toes and kissed his cheek. ‘Good night, Nikolas.’

* * *

It was odd, Cwen reflected, to see the two empty chairs at the main table. The larger one in the center, the Tarth sigil carved into the polished back, where her mother customarily sat, and the one to its right that was usually occupied by her father. Their absence cast an uneasy pall over the hall. Nikolas sat in his usual chair to the left of the Evenstar’s chair and glanced uneasily at it now and again, while he listened to the issues faced by their vassals and offered suggestions, assistance, or ran interference between squabbling parties. Details from the maester of the new rotation of House guards coming from the mainland. Discussions with the master-of-horse about the colts and fillies they would send to the mainland to sell. Trading a few of their finest palfreys with the Redwynes for a cask or two of Arbor Gold. The Arryns wanted some of the fine, blue-veined marble from Tarth for the Aerie for repairs. Could they spare trees for timber to build another ship to replace a few of the ageing ones in Westeros’ fleet? Nikolas had been doing this for years, albeit in tandem with their mother when she was in residence. She closed her eyes and let herself just listen to the sounds of the voices. Nikolas sounded so much like their mother. They both had the same deliberate, measured way of speaking, which made Brienne’s absence all the more startling.

Cwen pushed herself off the wall and slipped into the corridor and out of the castle. The day was sunny, with a hint of spring in the pale green buds on the birch trees and the tender shoots of grass in the high meadow behind the castle itself. Jaime sat in a wheeled chair just at the edge of the sandy cove, exclaiming over the tiny sailboats Jory and Endrew had crafted from twigs, bits of birch bark, and scraps of twine. She lowered herself to the stump next to Jaime’s chair, and shooed the boys away to sail their boats in the shallow water of the cove. ‘If you tell them everything is brilliant, they won’t learn,’ she admonished without any real heat. 

‘They’re fine boys,’ Jaime told her. Despite being twins, they were as different as night and day. Endrew was tall and sturdy for his age, a mischievous twinkle in his bright green eyes, with the burnished golden hair of his maternal grandfather’s youth. A prankster, to be sure, but not a malicious one. Capable with a sword, but a far better archer than swordsman. A young lion amongst the wolves. Jory, older by mere minutes, was shorter, with a wiry strength that belied his stature. Dark hair and eyes marked him as a Stark. The more adventurous twin, Jory could often be found dangling from the rafters in the stables or climbing the curtain wall at Last Hearth. He was well on his way to becoming a swordsman in the manner of not only both his grandfathers, but his maternal grandmother and great-aunt. 

He heard a waterfall of giggles behind them, and Lyanna tumbled through the clearing, her hands full of gillyflowers. She was the spitting image of Jon, down to the riot of dark curls that framed her elfin features. Her shy, sweet smile was the same as Tommen’s, though. It had given Jaime quite a turn the first time he had seen it on her face. He’d mentioned it -- privately -- to Brienne. She had cupped his face in both hands, and gently kissed him, before murmuring, ‘No, it’s yours.’ Lyanna put Jaime in mind of the tiny, iridescent birds with whirring wings he often saw in the formal garden of Evenfall. Never completely still, never settling for long in one place, singing or humming to herself. Lyanna appeared in front of them, and clambered to the stump on Jaime’s other side. Her head tilted to the side, and she regarded him with intense focus, before she reached up, and gently laid a crown she’d woven from the gillyflowers on his hair. She fussed with it, Jaime obligingly bowing his head, until it graced his head to her satisfaction. ‘Now you look pretty,’ Lyanna pronounced, before darting off to splash in the shallow waters of the cove near her brothers. 

Cwen fixed her gaze on the deep blue water of the cove, already calculating the angle of a flaming arrow. ‘Papa? Do you have any regrets?’

‘As I gaze at the end of my life?’

‘Do you?’ Cwen persisted.

‘Fewer than you might think. I made my peace with most of my regrets years ago,’ Jaime replied. ‘Mostly I marvel over life’s ironies.’ 

‘For example?’

Jaime’s shoulder hitched in a small shrug. ‘My daughter married the grandson of a man that hated me more than almost anyone else in the world.’ Jaime gestured to the boys cavorting in the water. ‘My eldest grandson bears the name of a man I killed.’ He shrugged slightly. ‘Peace makes strange bedfellows of us all. ’ He rested his hand on the pronounced bulge of Cwen’s belly. ‘How long?’

‘Two more months. Perhaps three.’ 

‘You shouldn’t have come,’ Jaime chided. 

‘You’re the only father I have. Nothing could have kept me away.’ Cwen’s voice cracked. She placed one hand over Jaime’s. ‘We’ll stay until the baby’s born. I have no wish to try and give birth on a boat or in some dilapidated roadside inn.’

Jaime smiled. She was still her mother’s child, and twice as stubborn. ‘Then as your father, I have but one request,’ he told her.

‘What?’

‘When you shoot the flaming arrow, try not to miss, hmmm?’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had intended for this to just be the one chapter, but then the story began to expand, as they do, so it will go on until Jaime's funeral.


	3. Like as the Waves Make for the Pebbeled Shore

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne closed the door behind Nikolas. ‘You ought to rest.’
> 
> ‘Not yet.’ Jaime gestured with his chin to the space on the bed next to him. ‘Still your name day.’ He blinked. The flickering firelight must have been playing tricks on his eyes. The shadowy figure of the Stranger stood in the corner. Just give me the sunrise, he begged. He was damned if he was going to die on Brienne's name day.

Ned bent and laid his newborn daughter, only a few hours old, in her grandfather’s arms. ‘No’ quite a godswood, but it will do.’ He turned to the tall windows of the Evenstar’s chamber and folded the shutters back, exposing the starry night sky. He then picked up Lyanna, swinging her to his hip. She drowsily rested her head against her father’s shoulder. Cwen walked in slowly, Jory and Endrew on either side, followed by Nikolas and Brienne. 

Brienne sat on the edge of the mattress next to Jaime. ‘Do you remember the words?’ she asked softly. 

Jaime brushed his thumb over his newest granddaughter’s cheek. He and Brienne had been in Last Hearth when Jory, Endrew, and Lyanna were born, and had participated in the brief naming ceremony of the Old Gods. ‘It’s my body failing, Brienne, not my mind,’ he retorted, with a hint of their habitual banter, trying not to wheeze. Jaime’s crooked grin took the bite from his words. He settled against the pillows, holding the baby closer to his chest. ‘Who comes before the Old Gods tonight?’

‘The Starks o’ Last Hearth come to beg th’ blessings o’ th’ Gods,’ Ned responded. ‘We come to give a name to the daughter born today.’ Ned brought Cwen’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to the back of it. 

Jaime’s hand cupped the back of the baby’s head. ‘We give this child the name of...’ Jaime trailed off and met Brienne’s eyes. It was her name day. As usual, she had tried to pretend it wasn’t. He took in a breath, feeling it rattle in his lungs. _It’s too soon,_ he protested silently to the gods. He wanted to give her -- and their granddaughter -- a gift that would temper what was sure to be bittersweet memories of this day. ‘Brienne.’

‘Brienne o’ House Stark,’ Ned murmured with approval.. Not a typically Northern name, but Ser Brienne of Tarth was as revered in some corners of the North as Jon and Sansa. 

‘Brienne of House Stark…’ Jaime began to space his words out. It was getting harder to breathe. ‘You share the name… of one of the bravest and truest… Knights of the Seven Kingdoms. Your grandmother,’ Jaime said huskily, while the baby blinked sleepily at him. He felt Brienne’s hand come to rest on his knee, its weight an anchoring warmth. ‘Wherever your path takes you… in this life, little one… may you live it as nobly as she.’ He took in a slow breath, beginning to feel lightheaded. ‘There aren’t enough brave girls… named Brienne in this world.’ He looked up at Brienne. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. ‘And today is… your grandmother’s… name day as well. It’s only fitting… that you should share… a name with her.’ Jaime bent his head closer to the baby’s. She yawned and pursed her lips, regarding him with bemusement. ‘Hallo, wee Brienne. It’s a pity that you’ve… just arrived to the party… and I must leave soon.’ He then brushed his lips over the baby’s head, reluctantly relinquishing her to her grandmother’s arms. Jaime sagged against the pillows, eyes closed, his duty done. He felt Ned’s hand grip his shoulder, and forced himself to open his eyes. Lyanna’s small, warm hand patted his face. Jaime managed to smile at her and lifted his hand to caress her curls. Then Cwengyth’s kiss on his cheek, followed by Jory and Endrew. He beckoned to Nikolas. ‘Basket by the door. Could you…’ Jaime paused, gasping as he inhaled. ‘Bring it to me?’ 

Nikolas snagged the basket by the handle and set it on the table next to the bed. Jaime shook his head. ‘Here…’ he breathed, patting the mattress with his stump. Nikolas leaned over and settled it snugly amongst the mound of pillows. Jaime grasped Nikolas’ hand in his own before his son could pull away. This was his last chance. ‘We don’t always get… to choose the ones we love,’ he rasped. 

Nikolas’ fingers convulsed in Jaime’s hand. ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he muttered.

‘You’re a good... and honorable… man, Nikolas. Who you love… doesn’t change that,’ Jaime told him, breath catching in his chest. 

Nikolas slowly sank to his knees next to the bed, head bowed. ‘I never wanted to displease you,’ he said, his voice catching on a sob deep in his chest. He buried his face in the blankets, his shoulders shaking.

‘He’s a… Westerling… isn’t he?’ Jaime asked, stroking Nikolas’ hair. Nikolas nodded. ‘Martyn… the third son?’

Nikolas lifted his tear-streaked face. ‘How did you know?’

‘I’m old, not blind,’ Jaime huffed. ‘Watched you… In King’s Landing for years.’ He wiped the tears from his son’s face with the backs of his fingers, then resumed running his fingers through Nikolas’ hair when Nikolas lowered his head back to the mattress. ‘You’re very good… at keeping… it quiet.’

‘Have to, don’t I?’ Nikolas mumbled, wishing he was young, and could crawl into bed with his parents like he had after the time the Tyroshi pirates had attacked Evenfall when he was thirteen. He leaned into his father’s gentle ministrations instead. 

‘You’ll need... a master-of-arms soon,’ Jaime murmured. ‘How’s Martyn with a sword?’

Nikolas let out a watery snicker at the unintended double entendre. ‘Not as good as Mamma in her prime, but who is?’ He dragged a hand over his face. ‘He’s good enough.’

‘Write to him. Offer him the position,’ Jaime managed to get out before he began to cough. He accepted the cup of water that Nikolas held to his mouth and took a small sip once the coughs subsided and slumped into the pillows.

Nikolas set the cup aside ‘Is that wise?’

Jaime lifted his stump in a small wave. ‘Likely not.’ He carefully let out a breath so he didn’t cough again. ‘I only want... you to have some... measure of happiness.’ He saw a flutter of blue from the corner of his eye. Brienne stood in the doorway, a wistful, fleeting smile on her mouth. ‘Go on,’ Jaime murmured to Nikolas. ‘Get some sleep.’ He didn’t have to add that Nikolas would need it. The next few days were going to be difficult for them.

Nikolas inhaled deeply and laid his cheek against the back of Jaime’s hand, then pushed himself to his feet. He passed Brienne and she reached out and cupped his face with one hand. Nikolas grasped her wrist, then let his hand fall to his side. He left the chamber, and Brienne closed the door behind him. ‘You ought to rest.’

‘Not yet.’ Jaime gestured with his chin to the space on the bed next to him. ‘Still your name day.’ He blinked. The flickering firelight must have been playing tricks on his eyes. The shadowy figure of the Stranger stood in the corner. _Just give me the sunrise,_ he begged. He was damned if he was going to die on her name day. Brienne removed her boots and slid under the bedding. He nudged the basket with his stump. _A happy name day to you,_ he mouthed, suddenly too exhausted to try and speak.

Brienne twitched the cloth aside. A small honey cake nestled inside, not unlike the one he’d given her in a small village between Harrenhal and King’s Landing. The pleased expression on his face was the same. She tucked the cloth back over the cake. Jaime put his stump on the edge of the basket, head tilted to one side, brows drawn together. ‘Later,’ she replied to his unspoken question. Brienne rested the palm of one hand on his chest with the sort of inward look Jaime recalled from when she birthed Cwengyth. The one between pains, as if she were preparing for the next wave of an enemy attack. Her eyes flickered back up to his, the line between her brows deepening. She knew he was slipping away, and she was powerless to stop it. Brienne gingerly maneuvered him until his head rested in the hollow of her shoulder, just over the steady _thump_ of her heart. Jaime felt her chest vibrate, and he realized she was humming. His head tipped back and the corner of his mouth curved upward with a shade of his old cheekiness when he was able to name the tune she sang. No funereal dirges for him. 

She crooned “The Bear and the Maiden Fair,” just loud enough for the two of them to hear. Brienne’s fingertip traced the line of Jaime’s mouth, and she winked at him. 

Brienne began to speak, her voice the ebb and flow of the tides that washed upon the shores. She told him things she’d never revealed before. The despair and doubt that she would be able to find Sansa, despite her outward certainty with Podrick. Arya and Sandor Clegane. ‘Something broke inside me,’ she confessed. ‘I grabbed a rock and smashed it repeatedly into his head. He was every insult, every jeer, every joke at my expense,’ she mused. ‘I would have searched the world for Arya or Sansa. I couldn’t bear to admit to you I’d been defeated.’ Brienne tightened her arms around Jaime. ‘I once told Podrick that all I wanted was to fight for a lord I believed in. And I believed in you, whether I wanted to admit it to myself or not, Jaime Lannister.’ Brienne’s chin trembled and she bit her lip hard to stem the tears. _Don’t weep for me…_

The Stranger had moved closer. Jaime felt Her cold finger trail down his spine. How many times had he managed to avoid Her embrace? _Please,_ he prayed. _Wait until dawn, then You can have me._

Jaime gazed up at Brienne. He had never told her, nor she him. Words are wind, she had often said. But he wanted to say it, just the once, before he could no longer do so. His tongue inched over his dry lips. ‘I love you,’ he whispered hoarsely. 

A shudder went through Brienne. She pressed her lips to his forehead. ‘I know…’


	4. No More Will My Green Sea Go Turn a Deeper Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne held him tighter, telling herself she would do as he asked and not mourn him. It proved to be an exercise in futility. She curled around him, tears slipping unheeded down her face. She gave herself the luxury of grieving in solitude for a few moments, because she would not have that once she left the chamber. After a few stolen moments, she slid from underneath Jaime and gently rested his body against the pillows. She swiped her palms over her wet cheeks, then swung her feet to the floor and tugged on her boots. Brienne forced herself to take one step, then another to the door of the chamber. Before she opened it, Brienne took in a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders, then walked out of the chamber and closed the door softly behind, as if to not awaken Jaime.

Brienne’s throat ached. She hadn’t stopped talking since Jaime lost consciousness. Never above a murmur, but she was determined that he know he wasn’t alone. She reached for the cup of water on the table and took a sip. Then another. The guttering candles on the mantle went out one by one with a wisp of smoke. She hadn’t bothered to close the shutters after little Brienne’s naming ceremony, and could see the sky begin to lighten with the coming dawn. The rising sun sparked off the waters of the Straits of Tarth. Jaime’s chest rose and fell. Brienne stilled, waiting, wondering if that had been his last breath. She gathered him closer, her heart in her throat. 

He inhaled, then slowly exhaled. And breathed no more.

Brienne held him tighter, telling herself she would do as he asked and not mourn him. It proved to be an exercise in futility. She curled around him, tears slipping unheeded down her face. She gave herself the luxury of grieving in solitude for a few moments, because she would not have that once she left the chamber. After a few stolen moments, she slid from underneath Jaime and gently rested his body against the pillows. She swiped her palms over her wet cheeks, then swung her feet to the floor and tugged on her boots. Brienne forced herself to take one step, then another to the door of the chamber. Before she opened it, Brienne took in a deep breath, and straightened her shoulders, then walked out of the chamber and closed the door softly behind, as if to not awaken Jaime.

She slowly walked to her solar, blind to everything around her, save her memories. _Is that a woman? Has anyone ever told you you’re as boring as you are ugly? If you fight them, they will kill you, do you understand? You protected me better than most… I trust you. They say the best swords have names. Any ideas? It’s yours… It will always be yours. Arise, Ser Brienne of Tarth, a Knight of the Seven Kingdoms…_

‘Mamma?’ Cwen’s voice broke into her thoughts. Brienne’s head swung to the side. She gazed at Cwen, Ned, and Nikolas in bemusement. Why did Cwen look at her with such distress, Brienne wondered. Cwen rose and handed the swaddled baby to Ned, then took Brienne’s hand. ‘Mamma…?’

Brienne caught sight of her reflection in the window, distorted by the wavy glass. Her clothes were crumpled and creased, hair mussed, eyes hollow. No wonder Cwen was concerned. ‘He’s gone,’ she announced, wincing at the rasp in her throat. Cwen covered her mouth with a hand. 

‘I’ll ride to the Motherhouse and bring the silent sisters to… to…’ Nikolas said, unable to finish the sentence.

Brienne nodded absently. In truth, she hadn’t heard him. ‘I don’t want to leave him alone,’ she muttered, and left. She stumbled up the stairs to their chamber, feeling every year, every battle scar, every ache and pain in her body. Struggling to breathe around the gaping wound in her chest. The maester had been wrong. Knowing the end approached hadn’t made it easier. She pushed the door of the chamber open, and dragged a chair across the floor to the bed. Brienne dropped into it, and then cradled Jaime’s hand between hers. The noise and bustle of the busy castle faded as Brienne slipped into more memories. Jaime standing on the shore of Tarth, unsmiling and apprehensive, more than a year after his presumed death. Swearing their swords to one another, their vows binding them together as surely as any wedding. Giving Nikolas his first lessons with the sword. Teaching Cwengyth to ride her first pony. Standing her father’s final vigil. Walking through Winterfell’s godswood with Cwen, to meet Ned under the weirwood. Cups of wine followed by terse commands to drink when they’d had to resort to Tyrion’s bloody game when ordinary methods of discussion and debate failed.

‘Mamma?’ Nikolas lightly touched her shoulder. Brienne blinked. The light streaming through the windows was significantly brighter. How many hours had passed? It’s time…’ Brienne woodenly pushed herself to her feet and folded the blankets away from Jaime’s body. She and Nikolas managed to lift it from the bed and then transferred it to the long table set in front of the fire.

Two Silent Sisters entered the room, bearing baskets that held the accoutrements of their vocation. ‘Get out,’ Brienne barked, surprising herself. She felt no ill-will toward the Silent Sisters, but she found in this moment, that she wanted no hands save her own to prepare Jaime for his burial. 

Nikolas laid a placating hand on her arm. ‘Mamma, they’re here to…’

‘I’m aware of what they’re here to do,’ Brienne snapped. She turned back to the sisters. ‘Leave us.’ She stood defiantly over Jaime’s body. 

‘But, my lady.’ The seton hurried forward in a flurry of robes. ‘They must be allowed to prepare him for his vigil.’

‘I told you weeks ago. There will be no vigil.’ Brienne’s fingers twitched and she had to restrain herself from reaching for Oathkeeper. 

‘This goes against the holy writ of the Seven,’ the seton protested. ‘The gods —‘

‘Then let the wrath of the Seven come upon my head. And his.’ Brienne gritted her teeth with exasperation. It was an idle threat, as Jaime didn’t count himself as a believer, and the less said about Brienne’s thoughts about the gods in front of a septon, the better.

One of the sisters stepped forward, insinuating herself between Brienne and the septon. She held out a basket, filled with clean linen cloths, one of the soft sponges harvested from the waters just off the island, and soap. Brienne took it, and the sister gave her a sympathetic nod. The other sister began to herd the septon from the room. She was a large and rawboned woman, and managed to drive the man ahead of her by nothing more than firm, decisive steps, the septon spluttering the entire way. The first sister inclined her head to Brienne, then followed in the wake of her formidable colleague. Once they had left, Brienne jerked her head at the door. ‘And you,’ she said to Nikolas.

‘But, Mamma…’ Nikolas pinched the bridge of his nose. His father had often been heard to mutter under his breath that his mother was far more stubborn than the goats. He hadn’t expected her penchant for single-mindedness to arise during this particular moment.

‘I am still the Evenstar and your mother. And I will do this alone. Get. Out.’

Nikolas’s jaw clenched. ‘Someone will be up with hot water soon.’ He bowed stiffly to the Evenstar, and not his mother, and left. He flung himself to a bench in the corridor next to Cwen. ‘What is she doing?’

Cwen gave her brother a long, slightly pitying look. ‘Saying goodbye.’

* * *

Brienne stood next to the table, both hands resting on Jaime’s shoulders, eyes closed, steeling herself. She exhaled slowly, then untied the laces down the front of Jaime’s shirt. She rolled him to one side, then the other, tugging the sleeves off his arms. She then worked the loose trousers and smalls down his legs. Buckets of hot water stood on the hearth. She took a deep breath, and dipped a small jug into one of the buckets. Water and a sliver of soap went into a basin. The fingers that grasped the sponge seemed to belong to another person. The sponge dipped into the basin. The hand squeezed it, then wiped gently over Jaime’s face. Sponge back into the water, then over the rounded curve of one shoulder, down an arm.

Bit by bit Brienne washed Jaime’s body, then his hair. She trimmed his beard. She dressed him once more. Smallclothes, linen shirt, finely woven wool trousers and surcoat in his preferred black. Pinned back the right cuff of the surcoat and shirt. A small Tarth sigil at the base of his throat, the rose and azure quartered shield bright against the black wool of the doublet. The smaller Lannister sigil Cwen had embroidered glimmering on his right shoulder. She carefully combed his hair, then stood, a hand resting on his chest, almost startled to not feel the steady beat of his heart under her palm. _It’s yours. It will always be yours._

She smoothed an errant lock of Jaime’s hair down. It was decidedly odd to see his face so still, eyes closed. His face could remain completely impassive and expressionless, but his eyes would speak volumes. Even as he lay dying, struggling to breathe, his eyes had said everything he was unable to say with words.

Brienne bent and pressed a final kiss to Jaime’s mouth, and then walked out of the chamber, without looking back. 

* * *

Cwen squinted along the arrow shaft, made a slight adjustment to the angle, then loosed the arrow. It flew through the air and landed squarely in the oil-soaked straw in the bottom of the small boat. Brienne held her breath, then released it when orange flames erupted and engulfed it. She felt Nikolas’ arm slide around her shoulders, then Cwen’s around her waist. 

‘Goodbye, Ser Jaime…’ 


End file.
